


Tactile

by dvske



Series: Count the Ways [3]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asher craves, Grant savors, and they're left with passion burning in the spaces between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactile

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [_The Way You Said 'I Love You'_](http://rhvme.tumblr.com/post/137729229293/) prompts via a lovely soul on tumblr. Prompt# 2, with a hoarse voice, under the blankets.

It’s never enough.

Up until Grant, Asher’s trysts have always been confined to the one-offs—acquaintances within his social circle, each with some level of charm or presence to spark his interest for a time. A string of faces from his younger years, his “looser years” as Sybil once coined. They were spur of the moment encounters, often drunken and sloppy. Always fueled by the assurance that whatever happened behind closed doors would stay there, later forgotten or buried, afforded little regard in hindsight.

_‘Off the record, shall we say?’_

Just good fun, up until now. Just sex, quick and simple, before both parties moved on.

But with Grant…

Asher still hasn’t found the words. Still can’t place the sensation it seeds other than it just not being _enough._ It’s something more, so much more, than anything he’s ever done. Better than with anyone he’s been with before. When it’s him and Grant, Asher demands (begs) in coarse whispers, faster, harder, _‘just fuck me, dammit, please—’_

Grant takes his time.

He takes great care with Asher, ignoring all demands for roughness and speed. Amusement in his eyes, in his light huff of breath that ghosts along ochre skin. He sets his lover’s nerves alight with drawn out touches, his massive palms like brands as they follow the contours of chest, abdomen, hips and thighs. Trailing lower, still, with kisses in between. His mouth and tongue, the prickling of his beard, press against every dip and curve and bulge.

Heat blossoms with each movement. Friction, slow, their bodies molding as Grant works Asher over with practiced ease. The blond folds into the sheets below, his head buzzing with the sharp scent of Grant’s cologne. Grant gives a resounding hum, a low _hmm_ as he drinks Asher in and props quivering legs over his shoulders. He relishes the way the blond’s back arches, the way he bucks and curls and knits tense fingers in his hair. Silvery strands, tousled and draped over bare, broad shoulders. His mouth at work, steady and teasing.

Grant guides, controls, but with none of the force Asher was once accustomed to. He sets the pace, a slow rhythm that pushes Asher to the brink, drives him insane, and _god, shit, shit, don’t stop, please don’t—_

A pause. His climax denied, dwindling. Asher letting out an exaggerated groan in response, throwing his head back into the pillows while laughter fills Grant’s tone.

_‘Needy one, aren’t we?’_

Infuriating.

 _‘If you’d stop_ fucking _around.’_

Addicting.

_‘Let’s make it last.’_

Thrilling beyond belief.

It’s never enough, but that’s precisely why he loves it.


End file.
